


Synchrony

by gyromitra



Series: FEAR!AU [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, I'm spin-kicking my common sense out of the window and I DO NOT CARE, M/M, Other, Sorry Not Sorry, Trying to write baby's first smut, and also technically qualifies as a threesome, but also completely consensual, it's intended to be creepy or slightly disturbing, which also technically qualifies as monster porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 17:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18761350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyromitra/pseuds/gyromitra
Summary: In the ruined corridor of an abandoned school, the game of cat and mouse comes to an abrupt end.ORI have no excuse, and I'm trying to write my first: 1. smut; 2. monster-smut. Please read the note.





	Synchrony

**Author's Note:**

> I'm publishing this as a part of obligation to finish the short regardless of how bad it will turn out to be - so the rating MAY change. It came to be as a byproduct of small personal game of 'how many out of context quotes sounding like they are straight out of monster porn can I pull from the main story'. The result was: a lot.
> 
> This 'short' branches from the school setpiece that's not yet published in the main story, and is NOT canon for the whole thing. Also, it might spoil a big chunk of plot if you like hunting for details but who cares. The intention was also to keep it as 'creepy' as the original.
> 
> So, enjoy the introduction, and maybe drop me a line.

He cannot draw breath, he is choking, the hand at his throat holds him up against the wall, the claws dig into his neck. His legs try to kick out instinctively, hit nothing — no, not nothing — something pliant, almost as unsubstantial as the air itself, so unlike the unyielding pressure threatening to crush his windpipe.

It’s torture, and torture he is familiar with, the knowledge how to withstand it until the breaking point, how to circumvent the questioning, how to give up certain information and squirrel away the vital parts.

Jack stares into the crimson eyes. His fingers gripping Reaper’s arm are ashen in color, with a purplish tint. Over the roar of blood in his ears, over the angry wail, someone shouts at him in French, then in broken English, the exact words lost to the rising noise. Tell them what they want to know. Tell them what you want them to know.

He is afraid. Afraid for his life, afraid of dying before the conclusion. But Reaper, he fears him not. No, not him, because Reaper still needs him — needs the surrogate for the dead man he is futilely searching for.

Even as his vision swims, Jack reaches out. The flesh of the cheek under his touch is moving, changing, never in the same shape or physical state, brings out the memory of newly hatched spiders clustered together, of blowing cigarette smoke at them and watching them scramble apart and then back close again.

“I see you,” he mouths as black crawls at the edge of his vision, the wet stringy darkness threatening to pull him under the surface and to never let go. “I’m not afraid of you.”

There is a shift in the pressure, the twitch in those dark claws buried in the flesh of his throat.

“I see you,” Jack repeats, “for what you are.” His eyes close. He cannot keep them open. “You are not a monster.”

The bark of the tree with the ‘J’ and ‘G’ carved into it bites into his back, the hand at his throat is warm and gentle, human, familiar, as is the mouth over his lips and the scratch of facial hair. The kiss is slow, languid, and all-encompassing — there is safety and comfort.

When he opens his eyes, Jack can breathe, takes a big lungful of air, and exhales it loudly. He is back in the ruined corridor under the flickering light. The claws on his neck are lax and flesh under his own fingertips is solid yet cold.

Reaper, with his head inclined to the side, observes him. His face has a shape now, a man’s face, skin tinted grey stretched over the bone and in places coming apart to reveal the underlying decomposition, spare bristles of facial hair framing broken lips.

“He loved you, didn’t he?” Jack whispers hoarsely while his hand still rests on that face. “He loved you, and you loved him back, didn’t you?”

He licks his lips tasting blood. Hemorrhage from mucous membranes, something he’s getting used to; strange how things like that become mundane with repetition. His vision is colored red and blurry.

“They took him from me,” Reaper speaks. The black smoke that spills from his mouth diffuses in the air like ink in the water. “They will pay for what they did to him.”

Like a broken record, Jack thinks, but isn’t that a truth coming from the man reliving all those random moments that had pulled him in, the flickers of gentleness, and the flashes of suffering, the darkness, the tree, the grass, the airstrip.

“You have to see him. I’ll,” Jack’s voice hitches and breaks over the words, “help you find him. See him.”

Reaper’s head slowly tilts to the other side, the crimson eyes don’t leave his face. The tip of a solitary claw travels up his neck, over his Adam’s apple, stops under his chin and digs into the soft skin below.

“Will you now?” In Reaper’s words, there is a hint of accusation and focused anger tinged with something sounding almost like a desperate plea at the same time.

“You will, Sunshine, won’t you?” The Beast languidly curls around his neck and cups his cheek - sneaks into his mouth like a finger tugging on his lower lip - and Jack cannot help the muted whine that slips between his teeth as the taste of blood and sweet rot spreads on his tongue.

Lingering touch combs through his hair - the grip is light yet firm, tilts his head back - and the claw ghosts over the faint raised lines of the scar across his throat. The smell of burnt meat and fat comes and goes with each hurried breath.

“Yes, Sunshine, only ash and charred bones,” the Beast murmurs seductively. “We are death, we are strife, we are what remains when all else is slaughtered in our wake. We survive.”

“You promised to take him with you,” Jack swallows against something hard scraping the back of his throat, a painful irritation - familiar - his muscles seize weakly against the intrusion.

“I did, didn’t I?” Reaper murmurs, words as sharp and precise as a surgeon’s scalpel cutting into skin and the muscle beneath.

“Didn’t I, Sunshine?” The Beast coils around Jack’s wrists - its tar-like substance heavy and oily on his skin; the intoxicating taste of mildew and iron trickles down his throat and the musty bittersweet fragrance of fermented fruits overtakes his senses.

Reaper comes closer and the claws flit over his cheekbone, and it is the first time Jack thinks about their peculiar texture, the strange spongy hardness ending in cruel points. He lifts his hand to cover them with his fingers. Maybe, he doesn’t mind to be the stand-in for that man who had died when the plane touched down. No, he doesn’t mind. It has never been about him.

With slow purpose, Jack tilts his head forward and to the side. Reaper’s lips are cool and swollen, the tongue cold and slimy, and from under the hood where his other hand found purchase wet and stringy (just like the darkness that even now - especially now - threatens to pull him below the surface) hair slip out.

Mul gwisin, Hana said.

“They drowned you,” Jack whispers into the broken mouth. “In that darkness, they drowned you, but you survived.”

“Isn’t that what we do, Sunshine?” The Beast playfully nips at his ear. He can feel the brush of the fangs almost piercing the skin, almost arches into the sensation.

“Months, years, forever.” The other set of claws digs into his side not unlike the Beast’s own claws when it scraped out the bullet from the inside of his stomach. He feels the abhorrently warm blood soak the fabric; the wet cloth clings to the skin, and the claws move agonizingly slow - continue their way upwards ripping him apart. It’s something like pain but not entirely, something much more intimate than anything he remembers ever experiencing. Something liberating, in how he places his very existence into the hands of someone who has no reason to care for it in the least.

Jack continues the neglected kiss even as he hears - feels - the bones crack - little needlelike splinters ricocheting inside, the taste of iron more prevalent than ever, and his breath stolen away. The lips pressed against his own are freezing cold and leathery in texture now. The Beast noses against the skin of his exposed neck.

McCree released Reaper from the Tomb, a fleeting thought, the Tomb where they had drowned him. It would only make a perfect sense that right now he is kissing a long-dead corpse.

“Do not nitpick, Sunshine,” the Beast chortles in good humor, nibbles in a warning on his jugular.

“I’m not.” Jack manages to choke out when Reaper’s teeth pull lightly on his lower lip. It’s charred bones and ash, burnt meat and fat, the smell of cordite and accelerant, it’s screams and chaos. Something wails, screams almost like a human in the jungle of broiled green leaves. The knife slowly scrapes against the bone, the grating kind of sound, as they dig out the bullets. No witnesses, no evidence. Cold lips move down, along the line of his throat, and Jack tilts his head back out of his own volition now, observes the black ash dancing on the currents, swirling and clogging the air. An efficient solution, he thinks, even as the cool air on his exposed body makes him shiver involuntarily. “Was it him, or was it me?”

“Does it matter, Sunshine?” The Beast fawns at the side of his face, pushes almost like it wants to crawl under his very skin - ridiculous, for it’s always there, always were - his only companion, his dark passenger.

“I guess not,” Jack agrees and the darkness, wet and stringy, finally pulls him under into the hypnotic lull of a single impossibly slow heartbeat. He inhales the water as if it were air, lukewarm, stagnant, and tasting of old death - of something left to fester in the bilge during the hot summer months.

The claws linger inside him still, and Jack, floating weightlessly, tugs Reaper’s head back up for another kiss. Savoring the moment, he sneaks his arms around the gaunt neck - buries his fingers in the long unkempt hair, the strands tangled and matted. Somewhere, at the edge of his senses, he’s aware of his own lifeblood mingling with the tranquil water encompassing all.

 


End file.
